


Advantage

by Semianonymity



Category: Toriko (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semianonymity/pseuds/Semianonymity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Livebearer pays Komatsu a visit, and takes the opportunity to cook with him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advantage

**Author's Note:**

> Content/Warnings: No explicit sexual content, essentially no sexual content at all. Very mild language. Default warning for Livebearer, for being who he is (so, generally creepy), but it’s fairly toned down. Overtones of Livebearer/Komatsu.

Livebearer stared down an upset, remorseful Komatsu-chan and tried to do something to control his anger—irritation, but he’d largely considered them one and the same for years now—because there was no one to direct it towards, because Komatsu-chan had had nothing to do with it but would feel responsible anyway.

Because if Komatsu-chan wasn’t going to bring up his history with Livebearer, then Livebearer wasn’t going to do it for him. He was terrifying when he was angry, and it would only upset Komatsu-chan, and on top of that a reminder of how terrifying Livebearer was would also be a reminder of the circumstances they’d met under…

Counting through those reasons took a split second, but while Livebearer was very good at managing situations, at making things happen his way, setting everything up so the cards fell right, he wasn’t very good at controlling himself. It wasn’t out of control, precisely, but a managed rampage wouldn’t work in this situation. He needed to—

He needed to…

“I’m so sorry, Livebearer-san,” Komatsu repeated himself, and Livebearer fought back a twitch with a small, indeterminate grunted noise. It only made Komatsu look more upset, which was starting to work Livebearer into a towering fury. “It’s the storm along the coast, it disrupted one of our deliveries, and a mistake by a junior chef meant that we had to discard some spoiled ingredients that should have lasted longer, and then it’s been especially busy and we haven’t adjusted our order quickly enough—”He trailed off, sad, honestly sad, Livebearer realized, suspicion flaring up suddenly, battling with his firm conviction in Komatsu, because this was his Komatsu-chan, and he was startlingly honest. “Livebearer-san, I’m sorry! I know you’ve traveled a long way, and it’s an honor to have you in my restaurant, and I don’t even have Century Soup…”

They both knew that there was no specific draw to the Hotel Gourmet except the Century Soup. Well, the Century Soup and Komatsu’s cooking. Livebearer was cold-blooded to a fault, at least when he wasn’t furious, and he’d already acknowledged the fact that Komatsu added an extra, intangible dimension onto the worth of something. That was why he was Komatsu-chan.

“It’s an honor to have a chef of your caliber, and also you, Livebearer-san. Thank you so much for visiting!” The statement came complete with a bow, and Komatsu’s face was simultaneously pleased and upset. Upset because he was so pleased.

Livebearer clenched his fists, eight and a half feet of muscle, skilled enough to make it into the top 100 chefs at number 18, skilled enough to make it despite not being affiliated with the IGO, one of only two—Livebearer, one of the most terrifying chefs known, impossible to defeat because he cheated, he was always playing his own game, and Livebearer always won. Always.

“Komatsu-chan,” he managed, and Komatsu really did smile at that, not as brilliantly as he usually did.

“I want to show you the Century Soup—after all, you helped with the Meteor Garlic! I couldn’t have done it without you, Livebearer-san.” And he was so certain of that, despite everything else that had happened or almost-happened then. “I wanted to cook for you… Livebearer-san, please feel free to return at whatever time is most convenient for you! Or…” he paused, then barreled on ahead, like he’d checked himself momentarily before coming to some sort of decision. “Livebearer-san, I know you’re very busy—”

True, but nothing was as important as Komatsu-chan, and Livebearer ran an operation he could oversee from a distance. He didn’t like being tied down. He commanded complete obedience, whether he was present or not.

“—but if you have the time, you’re more than welcome to stay for the next few days, or you could just return, I guess—but Livebearer-san, you’re welcome to stay in my guest bedroom, and we can make the Century Soup together when the ingredients come in!” Komatsu burst out.

There was a moment of silence, so absolute that you could almost hear the dust settling. “…Or I could recommend a hotel,” Komatsu-chan added, and Livebearer actually laughed, low and chilling, a manic edge to it. Komatsu laughed too, easy and light, and heartfelt.

“Coco-san would tell me I’m being indiscreet again!” Komatsu-chan said, as his bout of laughter was fading into intermittent chuckling, a wide smile still on his face. “…I hope you don’t mind, Livebearer-san!” he added, more seriously.

Livebearer was always calculating everything, always readjusting to keep his edge—and there was always an edge—and so he could keep going forward, no matter how things changed, and he always had his priorities straight, and his time was incredibly valuable, both to himself and to others—

“Komatsu-chan, I would never turn down your hospitality,” Livebearer said, smiling even wider, and Komatsu just smiled right back, even though the same expression had made grown men weep, before, even though Komatsu had had that smile turned on him in circumstances where Livebearer had been prepared to do worse than kill him, he’d been ready to erase the memory of everything that made Komatsu-chan the chef he was, everything that made him the person he was—

“It’s an honor!” Komatsu-chan announced, bowing again, and Livebearer felt his stomach go tight, painful, like someone had yanked on his innards like a chef disembowling spaghetti squash-pigs, too reminiscent of stomach aches he’d left behind several surgeries before, he was of course more than human, now, so unlike Komatsu-chan, so very earnest and so very disappointed that he couldn’t show Livebearer one of his greatest triumphs. Komatsu was disappointed because he’d wanted to cook for him.

It was almost enough to make him think twice about taking advantage of Komatsu-chan’s hospitality. But since it had been offered, he could hardly turn it down. He had no interest in self-sacrifice, certainly. He would get what he wanted.

…Although what he wanted was, fundamentally, to let Komatsu-chan keep on growing. To see what new techniques he’d develop as a chef, because Komatsu-chan was just starting to exhibit his true potential, and Livebearer and the rest of the world were blind for not seeing it sooner, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t had any idea, courting  _Toriko_  as a partner, and Toriko was of course extraordinary, but it had been Komatsu-chan, all along, by his side, that had let that happen—the man was damned inconspicuous, until he pulled something amazing out of his pocket, suddenly shining.

So Komatsu-chan was a priority. One of the highest priorities. So Livebearer wouldn’t get in the way of that, even if it meant leaving him alone. Or at least, he shouldn’t, but of course he was greedy, you had to be, of course you had to be selfish and fight to get your piece, there were only so many ingredients, so much of each ingredient, a chef’s secrets were jealously guarded—

—and Komatsu-chan was going to teach him how to cook Century Soup. Livebearer, towering over Komatsu, back to the light so his face was mostly shadowed, swallowed. Did he really want to stay over at Komatsu’s apartment? He couldn’t trust his instincts, because Komatsu had unbalanced them, had torn apart the basis he’d used to drive himself for—years, Komatsu-chan had sent him spiraling back to the basics, his cooking skills (eighteenth, out of all the chefs alive, he was better than almost all of them) put to shame by the determination and attention and pure skill that Komatsu had with ingredients. And Livebearer always knew what he wanted, he was always planning how to get it, that’s what had made him what he was, the man he was, but he couldn’t trust himself, suddenly, to know how to get what he wanted, because for once, it was more complicated than mere possession—

Komatsu was tiny, so close that Livebearer had to tilt his neck sharply to see his face, smiling despite the physical threat, despite the fact that Livebearer could walk away with Komatsu-chan right now, and he had none of his Kings there to defend him, and his staff didn’t trust Livebearer—as they shouldn’t; at least he could say that much for Komatsu’s restaurant—but they listened to their head chef, they weren’t being watched, and there was nothing mere humans could do anyway; and there was nobody stopping Livebearer but himself; and he wasn’t sure what he wanted.

Komatsu-chan acted like Livebearer made him happy. He’d surprised him once before—surely Komatsu had some other goal in mind, too.

“The guest bed might be too small, but it’s big enough for Toriko-san, I made sure, so hopefully it won’t be too short!” Komatsu-chan added, with a smile, a slight hint of concern in the tilt of his head, eyes watching Livebearer. Oh. He was concerned about being a good host.

Not about the safety of welcoming Livebearer, and everything that meant, into his home. The only reason he could be here at all was because the IGO knew it was more trouble than it was worth to try and stop him—try, because they had no chance of actually stopping him, considering who he was—now that he’d changed his ways and started cooperating.

“I’ll be perfectly fine, Komatsu-chan!” Livebearer promised, leaning forward to rest a hand on the smaller chef’s shoulder, and Komatsu just kept on smiling, the expresion even intensifying minutely, patting Livebearer’s outsized fingers, curled possessively around his shoulder, and when Komatsu dropped his hand and turned to walk out the door, Livebearer let go, and followed him.

The hum of cooking in the main kitchen barely stuttered when they walked in, and Komatsu earned some eager smiles even with Livebearer following after him—smiles that dropped when Livebearer returned them over Komatsu-chan’s shoulder, Livebearer noted with some satisfaction. He could see Komatsu’s influence in the hands of his chefs, in the deft movements. As it should be. Komatsu-chan. Of course he wouldn’t just run a kitchen, he’d  _teach_ , mentor and guide those he encountered even if he did it unknowingly. It almost made him want to laugh, to think that Livebearer, that he himself had something in common with the petty, unimportant humans bustling around him.

“I’m sorry to leave mid-shift, Sawa-kun,” Komatsu was telling someone—his sous chef, Livebearer thought. He was taller than Komatsu, but Livebearer towered over him, too, and while he was nervous, he was doing a reasonable job of hiding it. Good. Livebearer didn’t want someone too weak serving under Komatsu-chan as his right hand.

“You’re doing extra hours anyway, Komatsu-sensei,” Sawa told him, and chuckled when Komatsu made a sheepish face, rubbing a hand through his hair. “You’re not even supposed to be working right now! You know nobody holds you responsible for any time you miss—”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Sawa-kun,” Komatsu said, with another quick bow, and Livebearer turned to follow in his wake back out the door. Everyone Komatsu-chan passed greeted him, offered their goodbyes, and of course he knew them all by name.

Maybe more surprising were the bows and greetings that Livebearer got, all of them nervous and shaky-voiced, but apparently genuine. Maybe the role he’d played in defending Komatsu-chan from the Bishokukai attack during the Gourmet Festival had been more important than he thought, when it came to changing his image. Maybe it simply meant more in this restaurant, with these people.

———————

The walk to Komatsu-chan’s apartment was odd. It was strange to adjust his steps to match the stride of a man half his height. It was strange how Komatsu-chan could chatter on like there was nothing abnormal as he walked down the street with Livebearer, with  _Livebearer_  the former boss of the Underground Cooking World, Livebearer’s size alone making people skittish until they recognized his face, more slowly than they would if he was wearing his usual uniform—at which point their expressions transitioned to terror. Terror, mixed with awe, which was new. Maybe it was Komatsu-chan. Almost everyone greeted the shorter chef warmly.

It was strange walking down city streets in the twilight, a bag of ingredients in one hand—Komatsu-chan had insisted on taking the other bag—and his overnight bag hung over one shoulder, too ordinary for a man who hadn’t ever been truly ordinary, and hadn’t been considered human for years. He was too big for most doorways, there was no way to keep from crowding Komatsu-chan—not that he was going to try not to, unless Komatsu-chan said something—because he insisted on walking next to him on the sidewalk. The whole situation was full of incongruities, edges that should have rubbed instead of seamless transition.

Komatsu’s apartment building was older but well-maintained, in a quiet, residential neighborhood. Livebearer had to stoop to make it through the door, but the ceilings inside were high. Komatsu had an apartment on the fifth story, the topmost floor, spacious and tall with windows that let in the sunset; it was cramped for Livebearer, of course, but he could stand straight.

Komatsu had house slippers in a size that fit.

No doubt it was because of his Kings, but it was still surreal, slipping them on and following Komatsu-chan into the living room, then into the kitchen—which was much more comfortable anyway. Komatsu would have been gracious if he wasn’t so excited, so enthusiastic. It wasn’t anything Livebearer was used to. It was putting him on edge. And that was dangerous, around Komatsu-chan, to have a need to get even—it made it even worse, roiling in his stomach like—like a bad combination of ingredients. Hah. His Komatsu-chan, always upsetting everything, always breaking things up and tearing down—

“I’ll start tea,” Komatsu said, ingredients stored away in the cupboards, the fridge, some snacks left on the counter and others pulled from a cabinet. He added some fruit to the pile: sand oranges, dry but intensely flavorful, almost melting in the mouth; a fairly common ingredient, but they were perfectly ripe, down to the hour, at the very peak of their flavor. Of course Komatsu-chan would make even something commonplace shine. There were bleeding grapes, too, the seeds as sharp as glass shards and difficult to remove, the same color as the crystal-clear flesh that wept red juice. No challenge for a chef of Livebearer’s status. Or Komatsu-chan’s. But a fruit to be eaten by skilled chefs, something shared, to be prepared at the table, friendly.

Komatsu-chan always had paid exquisite detail to his menus; he was a chef, not a _cook_. It had saved Toriko, it had been Livebearer’s downfall, and still Livebearer couldn’t help but feel a little twitch of appreciation, that Komatsu-chan had set out a meal for  _them_. There was more food than any normal person would consume in a full meal, no doubt an allowance to Livebearer’s appetite. And the tea smelled delicious, fragrant enough that he could smell the matcha as the container was opened, sweet and earthy.

“May I?” Livebearer asked, approaching the counter—too short for him, which should have been an unforgivable irritation, he was Livebearer and to have him in your kitchen was an  _honor_ , he cooked only when he felt like it—but instead, it was somehow endearing. It was strange.

“Please, Livebearer-san, you’re a guest!” Komatsu said, looking over his shoulder again, but he was smiling.

“I’m already intruding on your hospitality,” Livebearer countered, with another smile—it was always a pleasant surprise to have his smiles returned, by Komatsu-chan only, what a good thing that the only person he didn’t want (mostly) to terrify was the only person not frightened by his expressions—his fingers were itching to work with the pile of ingredients. Nothing extraordinary, no special preparation ingredients, but the simple, subtle logic to his choices was enjoyable. No doubt none of his Kings would see any of the reasoning to his choices; the effect of it would pass right over their heads.

Komatsu was a  _chef_.

“If you insist, then I won’t stop you,” Komatsu-chan allowed, turning back to the tea, taking the kettle off the burner to cool down before he poured. “Coco-san would say I’m being rude again. But we’re both chefs, we understand, right?”  
  
Livebearer couldn’t help but laugh. (He wasn’t used to meaning it, even partway. It was still a tool, but it had been a long time since he’d used it to make connections, and it had been an even longer time since he’d meant it at all.) It wasn’t ideal circumstances, working in a too-small, unfamiliar kitchen, and he was hyper-aware of Komatsu-chan’s presence, to the point where it was almost distracting, but it wasn’t hard work. (Maybe he was paying too much attention to what he did; there was no reason to insist that everything be absolutely perfect. He was a better cook than Komatsu-chan. At the moment, at least. It did rouse a little bit of jealousy, that Komatsu-chan had more potential than him, and a partner almost as extraordinary as he was, and several more waiting to take his place if Komatsu wanted, but it was easily quenched.)

“And I’ve never tasted your cooking!” Komatsu added, clearly thrilled. “I mean, snacks prepared by you will be wonderful, but someday, I’d love to have a meal prepared by you, I know you’re a great chef! When you helped with the meteor garlic—I have to envy your skill, Livebearer-san.” Although Livebearer had heard true envy before, and it sounded nothing like this, warm and friendly and admiring. “But it’s not the same as—”

“I’ll cook breakfast tomorrow,” Livebearer said, a little too harsh, a little too demanding. But that was who he was, underneath the layers of planned-out reactions designed to get him what he wanted; Komatsu-chan would have to deal with that. (There was no reason for him to do so; but he did put up with Zebra, and all the other Kings; but he’d been nothing but friendly to Livebearer even though Livebearer had tried to kill him.) Mostly, Livebearer couldn’t temper himself, at this direct moment, which was terrifying in its way, because it took a lot—it took Coco, Toriko, and his Komatsu-chan all working in concert—to break him down, to ruin his calm when he hadn’t planned on letting it get ruined, but Komatsu wanted Livebearer to cook for him and that was overwhelming.

“Really?” Komatsu said, turning around, smiling wide—too wide to really be attractive, but Livebearer committed the expression to memory, he found himself returning the smile automatically, without thought, which hadn’t happened for—years, he kept tight control of himself until it was useful to let that control slip, and it was a response stemming only from his own emotions, positive emotions, and why the hell was he nervous about cooking for Komatsu?

The same reason there was a little thrill in eating Komatsu’s food. Because they were top chefs. Because they were chefs who knew what food meant—Komatsu-chan did, at least. Livebearer knew the prices, knew exactly what it took to get a flavor, or the memory of a flavor, exactly what each illegal or legal ingredient he controlled was worth, but it had taken Komatsu-chan to make him remember the reason why food mattered at all.

“It would be a pleasure to cook for you, Komatsu-chan!” Livebearer almost caroled, because it  _would_. He wanted to show off. He wanted to cook something for Komatsu-chan to eat. He’d brought along ingredients; he’d planned ahead. (He always planned ahead.)

(He could be out of IGO territory with Komatsu-chan in tow in less than a day, with or without Komatsu’s cooperation; he had five alternative routes in place. He could be safely hidden from any of the Kings, in any of a dozen hideouts he’d prepared, in another day. Nobody would know until tomorrow, if then, depending on Komatsu’s work schedule. They’d know it was him, but it was so easy and even if they figured out who did it—well, it wouldn’t help them get Komatsu-chan back.)

Komatsu set the tea back on the table, and Livebearer brought over the trays of snacks. It was solid work, simple but attractive, appropriate for two friends, but the fineness of the preparation was a way to show off. Livebearer allowed himself another smile. Komatsu was excited.

“Oh, you put cinnabar fennel on the fossil-of-quince paste and cheese!” the diminuitive chef said, hopping back into his own seat; Livebearer’s chair was larger, one of two that clearly weren’t meant for use by the chef, but still not quite sufficient to make him look like he was in the right scale. He snagged one of the tidbits, popping it into his mouth and eyes going wide with pleasure at the result. “Mmm, that’s delicious, Livebearer-san!”

Livebearer took his tea with a little bit of a smirk, bowing his thanks—Komatsu probably appreciated that sort of gesture. (None of the other Kings seemed to use any sort of formality with him—an interesting note, considering Komatsu’s tendency to be polite, at least until his politeness was overridden by his enthusiasm or energy or desire to do things  _right_.)

Despite the quality—or maybe it was better to say the  _rarity,_  the rarity of the ingredients, because the quality was perfect, selected with individual care and stored under ideal conditions to bring out flavor, texture, and scent—the snacks were delicious, and Livebearer ate his portion eagerly. The tea was exquisite.

“I hope your journey went well,” Komatsu-chan told him, halfway through deftly removing the seeds from a grape, with a surety that looked almost like instinct. Food just wanted to talk to Komatsu-chan, didn’t it? It was another vinegar-sour curl of jealousy, that thought. Komatsu-chan was potentially more sensitive to ingredients than he was, and he had far more untapped potential.

“No problems at all,” Livebearer responded, serene. Which was true: someone had attempted to hijack them right before they reached the border, but it had been nothing more than a mild diversion in an otherwise uneventful journey. And the attempted criminal had learned something about picking targets, because he hadn’t been prepared for the guards, let alone Livebearer himself.

But Livebearer had turned over a new leaf. The criminal would live to see the error of his ways. (Komatsu would care, it would be useful to persuade the world of his new-found status as someone less evil, he didn’t care either way. Nothing to lose, something to gain, another way to calculate things out.) It was no loss to him, to hold back his temper on occasion. He was in no danger of the underworld losing their respect for him; if necessary, he would provide a reminder.

Komatsu-chan didn’t need to hear about that, though. “We passed through the Gourmet Islands—and we were lucky enough to sail into a pack of sea wolves.”

Komatsu made a slight noise of concern, and Livebearer laughed again, slightly surprised to hear how pleasant the sound of his chuckle was, considering. Maybe the difference was context; Komatsu-chan’s kitchen was bright, scrupulously clean, and somehow friendly. Maybe it was the remains of the snacks, the rich smell of the tea. “No need to worry, Komatsu-chan! I saved some for you, and I found some opal lotus to cook with it—”

“Stir-fried?” Komatsu said, brightening even more. Livebearer smiled. (His Komatsu-chan made him a different person. For once, his hand itched to hold a knife, something that was becoming familiar again.) “I’ve got some green soysauceions, and sesame—”

“Marinate the sea wolf in chili oil,” Livebearer suggested. “Just briefly—I’ve got sun-chili oil with me.” Komatsu-chan nodded enthusiastically.

“And because it’s sea wolf, brine rice to go with it!” the shorter chef added. “With the mild salt-seaweed flavor, to compliment the rich, oily fish taste.”

Livebearer licked his lips in anticipation. “A perfect menu,” he said.

“Would you help me cook dinner, Livebearer-san?” Komatsu-chan said, and Livebearer almost stumbled over himself to respond.

“Of course, Komatsu-chan! It will be an honor to cook with you.”

Komatsu smiled, and smiled, and smiled.

———————

They’d cooked the sea wolf and eaten it, along with a fresh salad brightened with perfect pearl shrimp and glacier tofu, an ideal mix of earthy-sweet and salty, Livebearer careful to be the one to serve, to make sure that Komatsu-chan didn’t give himself too little. There was such a thing as being too generous. (Being generous at all. Livebearer didn’t quite understand Komatsu-chan’s impulses to defer his own needs to those of his guest’s. Komatsu-chan wasn’t very good at looking out for himself sometimes. It made him easy to take advantage of—Livebearer was working out the best angles to take advantage of—but it was a little worrying. He’d need to be careful about Komatsu-chan, too trusting, too weak.)

(Except he wasn’t weak.)

“I think that maybe the red oyster sauce was too heavy,” Komatsu-chan said reflectively, standing to clear the plates. Livebearer hesitated a moment too long to stand and help him, but Komatsu didn’t seem to notice.

“Yesss, I think you’re right, Komatsu-chan.” The dishes were small in his hands, but Komatsu took half of them anyway, with the easy efficiency of someone who had started out as a waiter, or done more than his fair share of grunt work at the start of his career. “And if I’d thought to bring spring sherry for the cooking—”

“Maybe sauteed greens with the sherry? Something sharp, aromatic, maybe slightly bitter.” Komatsu-chan was doing the dishes, Livebearer realized, serving tray in hand. He set it on the (too-short) counter and stood behind Komatsu’s shoulder, looming over him. Komatsu-chan was so vulnerable, so oblivious.

“Pickles,” Livebearer said with relish. Komatsu-chan made a noise of enthusiasm, looking up, with that bright smile on his face again.

“Pickled long beans with rack of veal?” he suggested. “Rich, tender meat filled with fat, to go with the bite. Strong flavors to stand out, but nothing overwhelming.”

“A garlic dish,” Livebearer added. Komatsu had started the sink, washing his dishes. Of course. Komatsu-chan had to do those kinds of things, living alone. He did his share at the Hotel Gourmet, too, more than was usually expected of a head chef, especially one of his character. It could be seen as a highly calculated move—in the upper rankings, chef politics could be brutal, and Komatsu’s chefs had an unswerving faithfulness that had, according to Livebearer’s informants, stopped at least one attempt at sabotage.

Komatsu doubtlessly didn’t think of it like that, which probably made it work.

“Maybe some fish,” Komatsu added. “The sea wolf really is king of the sea, but maybe freshwater? Another course, so it doesn’t have to compete—”

“With snow peas,” Livebearer said, moving to stand next to Komatsu, reaching out a hand to accept a clean, soapy plate, rinsing it. There wasn’t much room. Komatsu shifted, companionable, but they kept on bumping into each other, hip-to-thigh and shoulder-to-side. Livebearer felt overly aware, hypersensitive. Komatsu looked relaxed, or maybe oblivious. Livebearer couldn’t underestimate his awareness, his ability to plan—he’d learned that lesson already, Komatsu-chan had earned his respect and Livebearer would give credit where credit was due, because underestimating Komatsu-chan had been a mistake, and Livebearer never made the same mistake twice.

“Garlic tofu, and poached milk carp with snow peas and slow-cooked bitter gourd.”

“Lake-camel crusted in almonds and soy sauce glaze.”

“Something crunchy to compliment that! Although I’ve never gotten to try lake-camel,” Komatsu-chan laughed, passing over another dish, wiping his hands on his apron before pushing his sleeves up further. “Water chestnut, maybe?”

“Really?” Livebearer said, surprised, before he recovered. No, that had been the wrong thing to say—he couldn’t make errors like that. “We’ll have to have some someday, Komatsu-chan.”

“There’s always new food to try!” Komatsu-chan said, enthused, spattering a few drips of water as he waved his hands. “Oops, sorry, Livebearer-san! I’m getting overexcited again. I’d love to cook some more, but I have some work for the restaurant tonight—”

“You have to go back to work, after working all day?” Livebearer asked, feeling the pit of his stomach sink. Disappointment. It had been a while since he’d felt it quite like this.

“Oh, no, it’s just the new menu! I had an idea, something to try here at home—it’s a little silly. But pan-roasted root vegetables and just a little bit of Mors oil—enough to make it shine. Part of a winter meal—with sugar-sweet beets in the dessert, chestnut-flour crepes with sizzle pig, turnip greens in the salad.” Komatsu-chan laughed. “But the centerpiece would be the roasted vegetables. Dense squash, acorn-roots, two varieties of sparkling parsnip, deep carrots, ruby beets—”

“Difficult knifework,” Livebearer commented, clearly intrigued.

“It is!” Komatsu acknowledged, cheerful despite that. “One centimeter cubes, to roast evenly—so they’re perfectly tender but not overdone. With butter quail served over top. Then the vegetable leftovers—because with the cubes, they’ll be a lot of waste—cooked down into a thick reduction, concentrated and pureed—”

“How experimental, Komatsu-chan!” Livebearer sang, and laughed with Komatsu at the joke, shifting his weight closer so Komatsu-chan bumped into him when he reached over to hand Livebearer a cup that needed rinsing. “I hope you’ll let me help.”

“I would love your help, Livebearer-san!” Komatsu-chan told him, throwing one damp arm partway around him in an impromptu half-hug, and Livebearer smiled even wider, satisfied. He always found a way to get what he wanted.

Komatsu-chan was happy.

———————

The vegetables were in the oven, quail above them, the kitchen warm and steamy. There were mugs of tea on the table, droplets of water condensing on the windows, and Komatsu was there. He was pleasantly full, with food that had been cooked side-by-side with a chef of the highest caliber, unexpectedly tired—he ate, of course, a diet heavy in the highest-quality ingredients, nutrient-dense, designed to further support and strengthen his body, and he set his own schedule, so exhaustion was rarely a worry.

Today had been different.

Komatsu-chan was difficult to be near. Only because it was so very, very easy—his Komatsu-chan was almost impossible not to like. What if he roused Livebearer’s worst aspects? What would happen when he was mad-eyed and furious, ready to strip Komatsu of anything he could, ready to exploit him—but he already was, he  _already_  was, he was dangerous and taking advantage of his sweet Komatsu-chan’s giving nature, to sleep in his home and hoard his company and eat his food and learn his secrets—he had his smiles to gain, he had his attention, and surely Komatsu-chan didn’t know how calculated it all was, how Livebearer was playing him like a puppet, and so easily, too—

“Is everything all right, Livebearer-san?” Komatsu inquired, brows quirked up in mild concern, looking over the top of his steaming cup of tea. Livebearer felt a sharp pain in his throat, a sudden ache. He managed a smile in Komatsu’s direction, a flapped hand—no need to worry, Komatsu-chan, no need for concern.

And he believed it, of course.

The lamb had opened his arms to the wolf, smiling innocently, and brought him home for dinner.

And Livebearer’s hands ached. It had been too long since he’d worked in the kitchen. Too long since he’d had to work hard to manipulate or order or control the people around him, but Komatsu-chan always broke all the rules, and it was exhausting being around him, it took too damn much  _awareness_ , too much considering how Komatsu-chan seemed at ease, as calm and happy as he was with—with Toriko, even though that made  _no sense at all_ , and it wasn’t fair, there was no reason for him to—

No, no. He couldn’t get angry around Komatsu-chan and his delicious memories and his trusting eyes and his worry-free carelessness. Stupid Komatsu-chan! Only that wasn’t true. And somehow he was pinned by that trust, and that was even worse, it made him want to fight, only it didn’t, only he couldn’t…

He’d never stopped cooking completely, you couldn’t be the eighteenth-ranked chef in the world and not cook at all, but it had been years since he’d spend long hours in the kitchen, slogging through grunt work—dicing, cubing, mashing—that could be done by almost any competent chef. (Well, maybe not any chef. But anyone he’d had working in a kitchen with him for—years now.) Komatsu-chan was better at it, of course, than some talentless nobody would be—and because it was Komatsu-chan, the ingredients shone—and Livebearer was better, too, but it was still just chopping. And his hands weren’t used to marathon work, they—he—he wasn’t used to honest work, he supposed. It was against his morals, he thought, with a shark-sharp bite to it, a shark’s smile. He rubbed his dominant hand, trying to ease sore muscles, and across the table, Komatsu-chan made an understanding noise that made Livebearer’s head snap up, eyes dark as he watched him.

“Diamond acorns, eh?” Komatsu-chan said, getting up. Livebearer sighed—a ghost of a sigh—transfixed as Komatsu came close—that he’d come so close—and took his hand in his own, and suddenly Livebearer felt trapped, only there was no reason to try to escape, and every reason to stay. Komatsu was so warm, this close, he was so warm against Livebearer’s outer thigh, his side. His fingers soothed along the slightly dry, maybe just slightly plastic-like skin of his hands—no hiding who or what he was, not anymore, Livebearer thought, but he wasn’t used to feeling  _wistful_ about it—before digging into the base of his thumb, the sudden firm pressure setting off a sudden need to fight, defend himself, but—no, Komatsu (Komatsu-chan would never expect Livebearer to hurt him, never automatically assume that he was being betrayed, of course not, Komatsu-chan was like that and Livebearer wasn’t, he never had been, even before all this, even when he’d been just another student, back when he’d been nothing more than human) was pressing into the aching muscle, his fingers skilled, of course, firm brisk movements and the warmth of his skin as he eased the tension out of Livebearer’s hand.

He sighed, he couldn’t help himself, he wasn’t working to keep his reactions reined in and there was no reason to, it had been automatic for years, but Komatsu had broken that, too, of course he had, but he wasn’t thinking about that. Just the delicious stroke of small, steady fingers over his hands, insistent as someone kneading bread on the fleshy base of his fingers, then working around—more careful—to stroke the muscle and tendon of the back of his hands, less protected. Livebearer felt a sudden, awful vulnerability. There was nothing in the world that could move him now, he thought, unless Komatsu, nestled up against him, pushed him away. He should be infuriated. He felt like he’d been given a gift. What did you _do_  with Komatsu, when he gave himself to you? How could he stop—taking, and taking—

“Komatsu-chan, you’re far too easy to take advantage of,” Livebearer said, but his words didn’t even ring false or hollow, they just fell flat, too quiet and too audibly vulnerable. His mouth was thick with something far too reminiscent of bile.

“What do you mean, Livebearer-san?” Komatsu asked, so polite, so respectful, even as his hands circled Livebearer’s thick wrist, loosening tight muscle and easing strained tendons, careful and conscientious, moving by feel but also with the same sort of instinct that told a chef when a cut of meat was done, how long a sauce needed to simmer. All his attention was focused on Livebearer, sharp as the blade of a knife but not cutting him, not quite yet.

“You’ve welcomed me into your home, fed me, let me work in your kitchen—Komatsu-chan,” he began, but he wasn’t able to find the words, except to say the truth, bluntly. He was grasping at straws, he was aching, he was putty in Komatsu’s little hands, which held an enviable amount of skill—Livebearer was never too proud to admit when someone else was skilled, because there was always a way to take it for his own—and even greater  _potential_. “And now you’re—you’re touching me,” he began, but then he faltered, because he didn’t know how to say it. How to say,  _Komatsu-chan, you treat me like everything’s normal, but I’m still myself in your eyes—but I can’t be, I shouldn’t be, and you give me cracks and crevices to work my way into, you give me inches that I can push and leverage and you were so upset, and you just gave me more than I would have asked for, that’s not how you bargain—_

“Oh, no, am I being too forward?” Komatsu said suddenly. He’d latched onto the wrong words, Livebearer thought, feeling nauseous. “Just pushing into your personal space—I’m sorry, Livebearer-san! I didn’t think—you know how I am—” and he did, that was the thing, Livebearer realized, he was just that tactile or more with Toriko, Coco, the other people Livebearer had learned he associated with. “I just thought—we all used to have sore hands back in school, especially when we were learning vegetables—years ago, but it all came back—I’m sorry for presuming.” He looked so upset, so upset  _with himself_. That wasn’t right. Livebearer rumbled with frustration, but only his free hand curled into a fist. Only his free hand, because Komatsu’s grip had loosened, but he still had Livebearer’s skin under his slightly-rough fingertips, he still maintained that spot of contact.

“Komatsu-chan—” He stopped, shook his head, rolled his shoulders back. “Komatsu-chan, you can’t let me take advantage of you.”

Komatsu paused. Then his hand settled back against Livebearer’s aching hands, the back of it, and his other hand turned it over—tugged, and Livebearer turned it over, oddly fascinated (but not horrified) by the hold the other chef held over him. And his fingers pressed into a sore spot in his palm, Livebearer had no idea how he knew it was there (because Komatsu-chan had more potential than him, when it came to ingredients, but he had a way with people that was baffling, because Livebearer couldn’t figure out a way around him, and it wasn’t just his skill, because anyone else wouldn’t—Livebearer had done unforgivable things, to others, and tried to do the same to him, he’d frightened him half to death, and on purpose, and it wasn’t that he acted like those things had never happened, because he _didn’t_ , he—he’d forgiven him, Livebearer thought. Miraculously. It was  _Komatsu-chan_ , he did feel like a miracle, until he was just—there, and then it felt natural and oddly perfect.

“But I’m taking advantage of you, Livebearer-san,” Komatsu said, as if that was a perfectly reasonable thing to say, fingers easing over the first knuckle of his index finger, moving up towards the second joint, attention apparently fixed on it. “You’ve cooked with me—and you’re a world-class chef! You can’t forget that. And you agreed to cook  _for_  me, tomorrow. But you don’t have to, of course!” he hastened to add. “You showed me how to prepare the meteor garlic, I’m not sure I could have done it without you.”

“Of course you could have,” Livebearer said, but Komatsu waved it away, and he couldn’t argue, not with Komatsu’s palm kneading against his own.

“And you brought me food, Livebearer-san, some very high-quality ingredients, and then you helped me work on the next menu for the Hotel Gourmet…” He punctuated each point with a slightly more insistent pulse of his fingers, and it made it extremely hard for Livebearer to concentrate. “I’m taking advantage of you, I guess! —If you want to think of it that way.” But he sounded subdued. Livebearer felt unexpectedly cold, unexpectedly distant, except where Komatsu pressed against him—his heat was a weight. “I’m enjoying your visit. That’s not exploitation, Livebearer-san, I don’t think so. I like having you here. Just because, not because of loss or gain or—”

“But everything’s about what you take,” Livebearer told him, but he said it gently, somehow. He thought. There was nothing gentle about him. Komatsu cradled his hand like it was something precious—like he was something precious? No. Komatsu was almost tender.

“What about gifts?” Komatsu asked, suddenly, and dug his fingers into the base of his pinky finger, with the same sort of exacting care he’d shown with every centimeter of Livebearer’s broad hand.

“…There’s always power. It’s all how you manage it,” Livebearer said. Komatsu-chan had every right to turn him out of the house. His skin felt like it was glowing.

“If you see it that way, there’s nothing I can do about it,” Komatsu conceded, and Livebearer swallowed. Nervously. “But I will say that there’s nothing to any of this, except that I enjoy your company, Livebearer-san, and I hope you enjoy yourself! Thank you very sincerely for your help, but your presence was more than enough, you shouldn’t feel obligated—”

Did… Did Komatsu-chan think that Livebearer was offended, that he really was manipulating him right back, that he was— Livebearer was almost offended himself, outraged, to think that he’d be  _unhappy_  with Komatsu-chan, that—how the hell did he come up with a world where he was the one taking unfair advantage, where Livebearer wasn’t the one gaining, where he wouldn’t give back just as much as he took and—

And oh. He’d been outmaneuvered again. Komatsu-chan, of course.

“Komatsu-chan, I’m the one taking advantage, not you—”

“I told you, Livebearer-san!” Komatsu overrode him, earnest. “I even let you do dishes, even though you’re a guest—”

“Your hands aren’t meant for menial tasks,” Livebearer said, irrationally, but it had been years and years since anyone had considered him rational.

Komatsu’s hands left his, as if reminded, and Livebearer curled his hand into a fist. Komatsu leaning against him, suddenly resting his slight weight against Livebearer’s side, was unexpected—a surprise. Komatsu-chan made a noise of apology when Livebearer started, just a little, a not-quite-flinch. (It had been years.) And then a noise of frustration, of giving up. It was unbearable.

“I have every reason to enjoy your company,” Livebearer said. “Komatsu—Komatsu-chan—I’m the one with something to gain because—you’re a world-classs chef, and you don’t flinch away from me, you invited me to your home—like I’m anybody, but you still make it clear that you know I’m Livebearer, ranked in the top twenty chefs worldwide, the chef that did my best to take—to take everything from you, even your partner—”

“Toriko-san would never let himself be taken,” Komatsu-chan said with perfect certainty that would make no sense except it was Komatsu-chan, his partner would never give him up because he was—

“That just goes to show how much you’re worth, Komatsu-chan!”

“It’s not that, Livebearer-san. I trust him, and I trust—”

“You have no  _reason_  to trust me!” Livebearer felt sick to his stomach again.

“You’ve been nothing but kind to me,” Komatsu-chan said, and Livebearer couldn’t argue. It ached. “You’ve been—I trust you, I have since the beginning, practically—there’s a lot of things that you could have done that you didn’t, Livebearer-san, that you could have done. That matters more than what you almost did—”

“You have no idea the things I could do to you,” he hissed, poisonous. Komatsu fell silent.

Livebearer couldn’t say anything. Not a word. He was breathing hard, deep, like he’d run a marathon, or fought a wisdom panda. (He couldn’t fight Komatsu-chan. He couldn’t risk hurting him, and Komatsu-chan could be reduced to a bleeding heap of broken flesh so very easily.)

The silence stretched on and on, and Livebearer hung his head, defeated.

“Livebearer-san,” Komatsu-chan said, and Livebearer shivered. Then, more insistent, “Livebearer-san. Look at me.”

Slowly, he turned to look. Komatsu-chan took his hand. “There is nothing you could do to me. I wouldn’t let you do anything I wasn’t okay with.”

That was—crazy. Livebearer blinked at him, not understanding.

“Livebearer-san, I know you would never hurt me. You say you’re taking advantage of me—but I wanted to offer you a place to stay, after all the trouble you went through to visit. I know you attract attention—you’re very tall! And well-known, too, especially after the Gourmet Festival—and I thought—I thought you’d like to stay. And I wanted you too, if you’d be comfortable. I  _wanted_  to, that’s the important part! I wouldn’t have done it—done  _anything_ —if I didn’t want to. And I know that if I said no—if I upset you—you wouldn’t hurt me, Livebearer-san. So there’s nothing you can do.”

“Komatsu,” Livebearer said, jaw tight to keep it from trembling. “Komatsu-chan, you’re crazy—”

“Am I?” he said, sheepish. His hand curled around two of Livebearer’s fingers—all he could grasp. Komatsu-chan.

And because it was Komatsu-chan, who held irresistible strength, Livebearer believed that there was nothing he could do to harm, nothing he could do to break him, because he was held. That was crazy too. He shuddered, once, then pulled himself back under control.

Komatsu-chan stroked his fingers over his exposed wrist, the skin there fragile, even on Livebearer. His fingers were pale against the dark ink. Moving up towards the crook of his elbow, his hands smooth, just slightly damp—not unpleasantly. Livebearer wondered what he was doing, decided it didn’t matter—not with Komatsu beside him, still keeping him anchored with those slight points of contact, skin-to-skin. Livebearer had rolled up his sleeves—he wasn’t used to being so exposed, it was difficult. He hadn’t even noticed. Komatsu snuggled closer into his side, laid one of his own forearms—equally bare, but Komatsu-chan was impenetrable, undefeatable, maybe Livebearer could do nothing to harm him after all—against Livebearer’s corded thigh, and with his other hand tugged Livebearer’s hand to cover his wrist, hand, a portion of his arm—he was oversized against him. More so than even ordinary people. Maybe he shone so much because he contained too much for his size, and the sheer worthiness of his personality leaked from his pores, impossible to dislike him, if you were human—or had been human—or an ingredient, too.

What about him turned things on edge so easily? So easily that you could barely feel it happening, but still Livebearer had been emptied out, hollowed, everything replaced with an unknown something that echoed, even if it wasn’t emptiness. That wasn’t it at all. There were no words. What was Komatsu-chan giving him?

Livebearer’s hand against Komatsu’s pulse, steady—a little too fast. It was Livebearer he was arguing with, Livebearer he was trying to understand. Who wouldn’t be afraid? But it wasn’t that. It was frustrating, infuriating, impossible to understand. Livebearer should kill him, steal away his memories, invade his mind and take his secrets, take away everything that made him who he was, that gave him his strange power over others, even over Livebearer himself, helpless in the face of his—

He couldn’t.

Livebearer capitulated. He gave up, and the breath eased out of him in a long sigh. His fingers brushed against Komatsu-chan’s palm—not soft, like he’d been half-imagining, calloused with work and dry from hours spent doing dishes, obtaining ingredients, refining techniques—his fingers were clumsy, unused to this sort of work. Although it was even less familiar than rote knifework had been, he was even more out of practice when it came to this. Not that Komatsu-chan seemed to care.

“There,” the smaller chef said, pleased, curling his hand into Livebearer’s. Belatedly, he grasped back in return, and it somehow worked even though his hand dwarfed Komatsu-chan’s. This, too, was almost nauseating.

“Oh! The quail need to come out,” Komatsu-chan said suddenly, straightening—Livebearer loosening his hold so Komatsu-chan could straighten, just slightly belatedly—with sudden awareness. Yes, it was done, Livebearer decided. It wasn’t food honor so much as it was a sixth sense—Komatsu-chan had a  _gift_. It was awe-inspiring, and Livebearer knew just how deadly it could be—twice over, now. Komatsu-chan was frightening.

(He could see how ridiculous the thought was, could see it as sharply, as keenly, as he did anything—he was always aware of other people, more so than was normal for the highest-ranked chefs, maybe. Most chefs didn’t take their skills, though. There was always a curl of satisfaction at that thought. It hadn’t gone away.)

(Komatsu-chan, of course, had a way with people that was more than power. Livebearer didn’t understand it.)

But Livebearer wasn’t satisfied—he never was, he was a chef, there was always more, that’s what it took to keep on growing, to keep on winning, to keep on eating—you had to take what you wanted, and restraint was for the weak, he’d never kept himself from indulging, oh no. Not on narcotics or illegal ingredients or the memories of foods stripped from the minds of the losers, and Livebearer always won, there was always a way to take what you wanted and Livebearer could usually find it. (Not with Komatsu-chan. Maybe that was his power. But no, it wasn’t that.)

So he leaned over, towering over him until he took up Komatsu-chan’s field of view, broad shoulders and thick neck and powerful arms, the strength to kill and then cook and then eat a wisdom panda, all on his own—or almost anything else. He stacked the deck. He counted cards. His strength was just another tool. He enveloped Komatsu, arms cradling either side of his head, and leaned in to kiss him. …His forehead, at the last minute. Because he couldn’t make it to his lips, and then he wouldn’t have to meet Komatsu-chan’s eyes, still fixed faithfully on him, as he kept on taking and broke apart everything, the wrong way—not like Komatsu-chan, who destroyed everything he touched, maybe, or maybe he was just a chef in all things, and when he turned his mind to something it was dismantled, filleted or diced or gutted, but then he made it into something greater, something more, not phoenix-like because it was more ordinary—

Livebearer leaned back and turned away, his lips still warm from where he’d pressed them to Komatsu-chan’s forehead. He always had to take more. He’d end up ruining everything after all. Then they’d find out if Komatsu-chan really held any power over him at all. (When he was turned down, when he was sent away because there was nothing he had to offer Komatsu-chan as anything more than a chef, then they’d see if he could hurt Komatsu-chan. He’d be furious. He already was. He wanted to take and take and take but there was no way to steal this, no way except to earn it and he’d lost that race already.)

“Livebearer-san,” Komatsu-chan told him—so polite, so distant, or at least it should be formal and cold, but he always sounded as warm as a slice of pie out of the oven less than hour, just cool enough to be eaten but not cold. And he took Livebearer’s hand and pressed his own kiss to the knuckle of Livebearer’s thumb, and Livebearer snapped his head around to stare because he couldn’t—couldn’t believe it and he was going to hoard this memory as one of the most valuable, stored in triplicate, something to savor over and over.

He’d take whatever Komatsu gave him.

And maybe a little bit more. Whatever else he could take. Maybe Komatsu-chan let him have what he tried to obtain, too. He was in Komatsu-chan’s kitchen. He wasn’t the one in control.

“We do have to remember the quail!” Komatsu-chan said, like he was telling himself as much as Livebearer, and he disentangled himself, Livebearer helpless, again, almost as helpless as sitting knocked in one of his own kitchens.

But in Komatsu-chan’s kitchen, he’d made the chef breathless, an exhilarated, happy expression on his face—whatever it was, he’d consider it a victory, whatever he’d found to take. Whatever he was being given.

The quail turned out perfect. Of course.

-End-


End file.
